


A Path to the Dark

by frankenberger



Category: Hannibal (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, Angst, Based in the Star Wars universe but predominantly a Hannibal AU, Eventual Smut, Eventual Star Wars: The Force Awakens spoilers, Graphic descriptions of ornate murder tableaux, I changed the rating but there's no porn yet, M/M, May cease to follow canon Star Wars timeline, More tags/warnings to come, Slow Burn, Star Wars universe butchery, There may be upcoming dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5785768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenberger/pseuds/frankenberger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My name is Will Graham. I could have been a hero a long time ago, but now I am just a man. I was a ship mechanic for the New Republic, a technician and a tinkerer. I was a husband, and an adoptive father. </p><p>I was a single point of light in the endless darkness of space.</p><p>Now? I'm not so sure what I am.</p><p>Contrary to the stories that you may have heard, I am not a Jedi Knight. Once upon a time, the Dark Side touched me. It tried to pull me in, and in my weakness, I almost let it.</p><p>I almost let <i>him</i>.</p><p>I am no hero, no Jedi. I am just a man. If I keep telling myself this, it might become true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All I Need is a River

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a Hannibal AU set in the Star Wars universe ever since I saw The Force Awakens for the first time. 
> 
> I should note that I have seen all of the movies and some of the new books, but there's a whole lot of canon material I probably don't know as far as Star Wars goes. I know a whole lot more about Hannibal. So if I've gotten anything wrong, my apologies. There is a point at which I have to stop researching and just forge ahead.
> 
> So, um... Yeah. Here's a thing. I'm just going to leave it here.

Both of the engines were caked with a gritty sludge, some foul combination of dust and grease and ash. Will Graham swiped his thumb across the surface and could feel the metal rough and pitted beneath the grime. Now, this was the real problem. Muck washes off, but the sand that had gotten into the workings after the hull breach had scored the engines deeply. Could be cosmetic, could throw the whole system off balance. There would be no way to know the extent of the damage until Will fired up the array. Even then, it would be risky.

From the looks of it, some hotshot flyboy had sustained a good scrape to the hull prior to taking a surface-skimming joyride across the dunes of a desert planet. These ships weren't built to eat so much sand. If the pilot hadn't been long dead, Will would have given him some sage advice regarding what does and does not constitute appropriate atmospheric flight in a TIE/LN starfighter.

Both ion engines would need to be taken apart, re-machined where necessary, and completely rebuilt from scratch. Hardly a worthwhile or profitable task given the age of the fighter, but Will made a decent enough living to justify his hobbies. Refurbishing astromech droids kept a steady stream of credits flowing in, and the Republic Fleet threw him an occasional lucrative commission for old time's sake. Although he'd hate to take her money, he also knew that Molly had some funds set aside. They were comfortable here, and after two years they had fallen into the pleasant rhythms of family life. They had the breathing room for little luxuries and pastimes. When he had told his wife he was rebuilding a crashed Imperial TIE fighter, she only laughed and made him promise that he wouldn't buzz the neighbours and get himself shot down.

It was an easy promise to make. He had only been a kid when the Galactic Concordance ended the tyranny of the Empire, but the menace still seemed fresh and the paranoia here in the heart of Republic territory was real. The distinctive flat wing panels of the fighter, currently gathering dust under a tarpaulin in his shed, would stay detached until the craft was ship-shape again.

Will took a deep breath, and unpacked his tools so he could get to work.

He fell into a pleasant haze as late morning turned to afternoon. While he was physically present, dissembling the ion engine by muscle memory alone, he let his mind wander. He thought a lot about fishing, a favourite activity when the weather was right. In the bubble of his inner world, he would stand in the cool water of the stream, feeling the flow of the current as it pulled at his legs. Hearing the calls of the native birds in the dense forest and the buzz of the insects. Casting his fly with a practised flick of his wrist. The vision was meticulously constructed and ornate. It was such a calm and peaceful place that he didn't hear the landspeeder as it arrived, and was only brought back to reality by the excited beeping chirps of the R5 droid in the front yard as the visitor approached.

Will didn't turn around, but reached for a rag to wipe the black engine sludge from his hands as footsteps crunched through the fresh snow, coming to a stop at the open door of the workshed.

"Will." Even without looking, Will recognised the familiar, friendly voice. He wasn't entirely surprised. This had been a long time coming.

"Jack," Will responded, without hesitation. He wondered if neglecting Jack Crawford's rank would irritate him. He hoped that it would.

"It wasn't hard to find you."

Will turned finally, returning Jack's warm smile with a grimace of strained politeness. A quick glance told him that the other man's experiences had aged him. He seemed older than he should, more than the few years since they had last met. His face was becoming more prominently lined, and the stubble on his dark shaved head sparkled with grey. Will wondered vaguely if he himself had been similarly affected.

"I wasn't aware I was hiding." He said. Settling down on Hosnian Prime could hardly be considered as surreptitious, given its current status as home of the Galactic Senate.

Jack chuckled, shook his head. The older man was seemingly dressed for a blizzard, eschewing his standard military garb for the comfort of a thick padded coat and the snow goggles that perched on his forehead like a second pair of insectile eyes. He must be stationed somewhere hot, if he was so incapable of handling this mild Hosnian winter. "One of the more densely populated planets in the New Republic, and you still somehow manage to wedge yourself into the most isolated corner. I'm actually impressed." 

Will had to admit that he had a point. The growth of overlapping cities had swallowed much of the planet's surface, so it had been hard to find solitude. Not impossible, as it would have been on Coruscant, but difficult all the same. This had been the perfect place, equidistant from civilisation on all sides. If you looked in just the right direction, you couldn't even see the metropolis. Only the forest, and the snow capped mountains along the horizon. 

"All I need is a river, and I'm happy. I like the quiet." They could have settled anywhere, but he was not selfish enough to insist that his new family relocate to the Outer Rim Territories just so he could live out his hermit fantasies. "Molly feels safer here."

"Do you?" 

Jack's instincts were as keen as ever, it seemed. Will responded with a wan smile. "Should I feel safe here?" He watched Jack's eyes for some reaction and only noted the same bland pleasantness. If there were something bad about this place, Jack may not be able to share it with a civilian. Even if said civilian were an old friend. Will shrugged. "It can all turn to dust in an instant. You know that, as well as I do."

Jack pursed his lips and made a small sound of agreement. From his pause, Will could tell that he was remembering the last time things fell apart. "I had hoped you would come find me," He said finally, his voice still jovial. "But I understand why you didn't."

The last time they had spoken, they were plotting the downfall of a dangerous man. A messy and grisly affair, it had almost ended with both their deaths. Jack with a shard of glass in his neck as he cowered in a shipboard storeroom, and Will bleeding out on the galley floor. After the long and painful recovery, Will had wanted nothing more than to move on with his life. To forget.

The memory was painful even without delving further, and Will suddenly felt tired. He wanted to be done with this conversation, so he could politely but firmly send Jack on his way. He turned back toward his workbench and picked up the wrench, worrying at a rusted bolt. "What can I do for you, Jack?"

Jack retrieved a small electronic device from his pack, and he held it out. "You should probably look at these images," he said. 

Will looked up, but made no move to take the holoprojector unit. While he wasn't able to read Jack's mind, he had a fairly good idea what this was about. He waved in Jack's direction, a dismissive gesture. "I don't want to look at your kriffing holograms." He would remain courteous as long as possible, but the anger was starting to peek through. Life had been going well. So well that he had the feeling Jack was here to turn all his good things to dust. "Molly and Walter will be back soon. Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

"He's killing again. Four victims, just this month." 

Will felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He put down the wrench, having lost all interest in the engine. "I don't believe you," he said, hearing the uncertainty in his own voice.

"We're positive. The presentations vary, but they all conform to a particular aesthetic." The last word was twisted with a certain bitterness. Jack put the holoprojector down on the workbench beside Will. "Missing organs, surgically removed. You know his pattern, Will. There was nothing to link these victims apart from their varying degrees of Force sensitivity."

Will sighed heavily and scrubbed his eyes with open palms, no doubt smearing grease all over his face. He wasn't equipped to deal with this. "Jack, I..."

"Listen to me, Will." Jack snapped. His façade was beginning to crumble. "I can't sense the Force worth a damn, but even I felt the disturbance when he killed these people. Don't tell me you didn't feel it too."

"I felt it." Will admitted. The sensation had been weaker than he remembered from his youth, when the massacre at the New Jedi Temple had hit him like a punch in the gut. But he had still recognised it instantly. It was a sick, clammy feeling.

"If you won't do it for me, do it for them," Jack said, firmly. "All I ask is that you take a look. I need your guidance."

Will had perhaps been on the cusp of a decision, but he was jolted out of his deliberation by the sound of a speeder coming closer. Molly and Walter were back from their supply expedition.

Feeling almost guilty, Will snatched up the holoprojector from the bench as he turned around to greet his wife and adopted son. When he saw the stranger at the shed, Walter hung back and was soon surrounded by a cluster of boisterous droids. The smile on Molly's face as she approached was friendly but uncertain. Will knew that he wouldn't be able to get away without making introductions.

"Molly, this is Major Crawford. He was my commanding officer in the Service."

Jack shook Molly's offered hand. "Lieutenant Colonel Crawford." He corrected, flashing her a wide grin. "Not that it matters. You can call me Jack."

As her shoulders relaxed, Will could tell that she liked Jack. He was definitely likeable enough when he wanted to be, big and bluff with an easy genial manner. "Nice to finally put a face to the name," she said. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Only good things, I hope."

"Jack came by for a quick visit, but he was just leaving," said Will, abruptly. Even though she was well aware of Will's occasional bluntness, Molly put on a show of looking aghast. Jack, on the other hand, just glared. It wasn't ill-natured at all, just stern. This was more like the commander that Will remembered.

"You must be mistaken. Jack's staying for dinner." She held up a finger, brooking no opposition. "Isn't that right, Jack?"

The ghost of a smile touched the corners of Jack's mouth as he stared back at Will. "I could definitely eat. But I wouldn't want to impose."

"We'd be happy to have you." Molly glanced at Will who nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Tell me, though, has my husband always been this rude?"

"I could tell you a story or two," confirmed Jack dryly.

Joking aside, Will knew that Jack would have nothing negative to say to Molly about their friendship thus far. Will wished he could say the same. Jack really was a likeable guy. When he wanted to be.

Will cleared his throat. "Come on, Jack. Let me introduce you to Walter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this AU might appeal to a pretty small niche of folks, so if you liked it, please let me know! Kudos are my life-sustaining Force, and comments power my lightsaber.
> 
> Hoping to get the second chapter in place very soon, so we can start getting this action up and running. I have the feeling that this might be a long one, based on my current outline.
> 
> May the Force be with you, my lovely Fannibals!
> 
> <3 <3 <3


	2. The Blood that Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a particularly familiar aesthetic to the murders that have recently occurred in the New Republic. And, as Will is about to discover, there is also a certain familiarity in the appearance of some of the victims.

The snow stopped falling by sunset, and the large bright moon of Hosnian Prime hung heavily in the sky by the time dinner was done. To Jack's credit, he kept the small-talk centred around personal anecdotes calculated to embarrass Will and amuse his wife. The work they had done together was barely mentioned, and the name that hovered in the forefront of both their minds wasn't spoken at all. Will was thankful for this, and had to admit to himself that it was a good evening. Yesterday's catch had been delicious, the fish well-cooked and simply seasoned, and Jack had seemed almost surprised when he complimented the chef. "You know, I don't believe you've ever cooked for me before, Will."

"I can cook, you know. Maybe I picked up a few things along the way." They shared a smile and a private look. Memories passed between them of elegant dinner parties on a luxury space yacht, of the enigmatic and exemplary host that had been a friend to them both, once upon a time. As the silence deepened, Molly fidgeted awkwardly. She could clearly tell that his words had some sort of significance, but she didn't know what it was. Opting for a graceful exit, she took this as her cue to put the boy to bed. After she had left, Will wordlessly gathered up the dishes to take them to the kitchen.

This was where the Lieutenant Colonel found him, minutes later, standing at the window. Moonlight was his sole illumination, but Jack could see that he was holding the holoprojector unit. He hadn't touched the power switch yet.

"It works better if you turn it on," said Jack.

"I'm more worried about whether I can turn it off again." Will chuckled, a strangled and helpless sound. He could feel the cold sweat at the nape of his neck, trickling down the back of his shirt. "You know what this stuff does to me, Jack."

Jack approached the other man, silhouetted in the semi-darkness. While Will couldn't see the concern in his face, he hoped that it was bubbling under the surface somewhere. Jack Crawford was goal focused by nature, and had the tendency to drive people past their limits to get the job done. Without an anchor to steady him, Will didn't even know where his limits were anymore.

"I'm not asking you to come with me," Jack said. "I'll let you decide that for yourself. Right now, I just need you to look at the pictures."

Will put down the projector and braced himself against the cool stone surface of the countertop. His hands were shaking badly, and while he didn't really care that Jack witnessed his display of weakness, he didn't want to lose his grip on the device. "You have a full team of investigators with far more experience than me," he protested. There would always be a sticking point for him. For every argument refuted, another excuse. In the back of his mind a familiar voice reminded Will that he worried too much, told him that he would be so much more comfortable if he relaxed with himself.

And he was right. Damn it, he was almost always right.

"I don't have a single investigator with personal experience. Nobody that knows him." Jack hesitated briefly. "Knew him."

Seemingly determined to participate in the rest of the conversation, the voice in Will's mind chuckled blackly as he spoke. "I can't claim to have known Hannibal Lecter." The name, unspoken throughout the evening, echoed through the room like the heavy sound of a tolling bell. A testament to the power of words when afforded undue gravity, Jack shuddered almost imperceptibly. "I only knew the face he chose to present."

Like the masks worn by the Sith Lords of old, Hannibal had worn the aspect of a friend. He hid the darkness inside him until it was almost too late for Will to save himself. A physical pain welled inside Will when he thought of the others for whom it had been far too late. Those he had been unable to save.

"If you can tell me without the shadow of a doubt that he didn't kill these people, I'll turn around and leave. Get my team to investigate this, analyse the threat." Jack had always been astute, due no doubt to his baseline level of Force sensitivity, but sometimes it seemed as if he could read Will's thoughts despite the blocks he had in place. Perhaps Jack was a Jedi Master in hiding. "Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong."

The tips of Will's fingers brushed against the holoprojector on the counter, as if he had been unconsciously reaching for the device. There was a part of him that wanted to see the tableaux it depicted. A part of him that wanted to tell Jack he was mistaken, hope that he would keep to his word and leave.

_Then again, what if...?_

He couldn't deny that he felt some kind of responsibility, if Jack was right. Taking the long-ago offered advice, Will relaxed with himself for a moment. Just long enough to activate the holoprojector.

Hovering an inch above the humming metal surface of the device, the body of a young woman was displayed in miniature. The image glowed a pale blue and blurred occasionally with static, but it was clear enough for Will to see the corpse in fine detail. Lying face up, she had long auburn hair that fanned around her like the rays of an imagined sun. She had maybe been twenty years old, but it was hard to tell without the eyes. Her empty sockets stared up at Will, pantomiming sadness with the thick trails of dried blood that coursed down her cheeks. Her hands were clasped over the ruin of her chest, where her heart once belonged.

Despite his years of desensitisation to such visions of brutality, it still hurt to look. There was a distinct tightening feeling in his chest as he studied the dead girl. She was a stranger, but there was still a sense of familiarity in her features. Plain but pretty. Wind-chafed skin. She almost looked like someone he knew. A girl who had been almost as close as a daughter, before... Will didn't want to finish the thought. A glance at Jack told him that he was well aware of the resemblance, but didn't want to mention it. Out of respect for the dead, perhaps, or respect for Will. 

Will was haunted by the empty eyes of the dead girl. As hot tears began to prickle at the corners of his vision, he flicked swiftly to the next image.

It seemed crass to him, but the next corpse was far easier for Will to look at. The man looked to be a military pilot. Dark-skinned, stocky, and about thirty years older than the girl in the previous image. The killer had set him up as a human knife block, and the handles of various blades stuck out at wild angles all down his torso and thighs. He was blindfolded with a square of black cloth, but from the look of the blood that had crusted just beneath the bandage, Will assumed he had also been blinded like the previous victim. Will wasn't entirely sure which organ had been removed, though.

"He was castrated," Jack said quietly.

Will nodded briefly and took a deep breath, taking the new information in stride. "Fair enough."

He quickly committed the details of the scene to memory, and moved to the next image. This one was female and humanoid, but not precisely human. Even with the small size of the projected hologram, he could tell. The prominent eyebrow ridges, the proportions of the limbs. The skin tone and texture.

And the blood. _Oh._ This was something different, something new.

Will could hear the heartbeat thrumming in his ears as he looked up at Jack. A wave of mingled relief and disappointment rushed over him, nauseous and sickly. "Hannibal didn't do this." He tried to sound triumphant, even though part of him had almost hoped Jack was right.

_After these years, wouldn't you like to see him again?_

"Are you sure?" Jack asked, with a definite edge to his voice. "You haven't even seen the last image."

"I don't need to see the last image. Damn it, Jack. I can see that the murders are linked, whoever did this was telling a story. A full, eloquent narrative. But this victim..." He gestured toward the projection of the diminuitive alien body. "She isn't human."

If he were to judge by appearances alone, this would clearly be seen as the work of his erstwhile friend. The body lay broken on a steel floor, back snapped in multiple places and limbs splayed grotesquely. Her eyes had been sewn shut with thick black thread, unlike the deep incision in her side which oozed dark blood. Caustic blood, that had pooled on the floor beneath the body until it had eaten a jagged hole in the metal.

"Other races are just as prone to Force sensitivity," Jack said, as if explaining for a child rather than a man who used to lecture on the Force at the University of Coruscant. "Some races, even more so. That fits the pattern. And he took her kidney." 

"Her entirely inedible kidney." Aside from being a wonderful cook, Hannibal Lecter also derived a great deal of pleasure from the act of cannibalism. Will chose not to think about this fact very often. By the expression on his face, Jack didn't care to mull over the subject much himself. Fair enough, as each of them had joined Hannibal at the table on multiple occasions.

Will wasn't interested in sparing Jack's feelings right now, and he was starting to get irritated by the other man's attitude. "Does she look tasty to you, Jack? The killer probably had to toss the kidney down the nearest sewer drain before it ate right through his knapsack. Hannibal wouldn't kill someone he couldn't eat, and nor would he bother to remove an organ he couldn't use." 

Lieutenant Colonel Crawford pursed his lips. He would have a hard time arguing against this, but he would certainly try. "Look at the last image, Will." The tone in which Jack spoke, imbued heavily with command, was growing steadily louder. 

"You can't issue me commands anymore, Jack." Will often found himself falling into the speech patterns of others, one of the downsides of his specific empathic abilities. As a result, they were practically yelling in each other's faces now.

The argument had not gone unnoticed. Will could sense that Molly was lingering just outside. Sitting on one of the rickety handmade chairs on the porch, gazing out into the snow. She was afraid for Will, afraid for herself, and afraid for her son. It had been so long since she had heard Will angry, heard his voice crack in the throes of anxiety. Things had been going so well.

Will was damned if he'd let Hannibal Lecter, or even the shadow of the man, take his good things away. "You asked my opinion, and I gave it," he said, switching off the holoprojector before holding it out to Jack. "Good night."

The officer waved him away, squaring his shoulders. "Hold onto it for now. I'll be in the city until tomorrow night. If you reconsider and decide you want to discuss the evidence further, I've left my contact details in the device."

Without waiting for Will to respond, Jack Crawford turned on his heel and marched from the room.

Molly caught him at the front door. They looked at each other for a moment, solemn. She was the first one to break the silence. "So, whatever he says he wants to do, you'll take him anyway. Won't you?" She was a practical woman. She couldn't speak without emotion on the subject, but she wouldn't try to plead for Jack to leave them alone.

"I have to." He had not said as much to Will so far, but it was clear to see where this situation was heading. "I promise I'll try to make it as easy on him as I can."

Molly made a small noise of acknowledgement. "Good night, Jack."

Will could hear the sound of the landspeeder engine as Jack left, but he wasn't really paying attention.

In front of him, the holoprojector device glowed an eerie blue, projecting the image of Jack's latest murder victim in realistic detail. It was a human male, posed as if meditating. He wore a flowing sand-coloured robe like some temple acolyte, but the hood hung uselessly down his back. He was perhaps in his early thirties if the severed head staring up from between his crossed legs belonged to him. Unlike the other victims, these eyes were present and wide open. The very top of the skull had been carefully incised just below the hairline and replaced once the brain had been taken.

It was probably just a coincidence, but a palpable chill of recognition coursed down Will's spine as he realised that the hair on the skygazing head was dark and curly. Just like he saw in the mirror every day.

And inside his head, the imagined voice of Hannibal began to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an essay to write for University tomorrow so I probably won't get chapter three finished as quickly as these first two. 
> 
> However, the sooner I finish writing about the construction of Self in Sociological terms, the sooner I can get back to writing this strange little story.
> 
> I promise that Hannibal will appear in this story very, very soon. In fact, *points at next chapter* he's just over there!
> 
> Whee! I'm having fun. Are you having fun?


	3. Instincts and Blindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in over a year, Will Graham dreamed of Abigail Hobbs.

Will slept on his back most nights, in a slumber both deep and calm. Free from the habitual nightmares that had plagued him since his youth, he would no longer thrash in a sweaty tangle of bedsheets night after night. Molly had put an end to that. She felt safe now to draw him close in the midst of his peaceful rest, curling her body around his side and nestling in the warmth. The gentle hands that once combed through his hair to soothe his terrors now served to ground him, to bind them closer.

But Molly had a tendency to drift. Through the night she often gravitated to the far side of the bed, teetering on the very edge of the mattress with her hands folded under her head. He knew it wasn't intentional. It was perhaps a testament to her survivor nature, the strength that sustained her through the death of her first husband. The determination to endure, even if it meant being alone or waking up cold.

The brutality Will had seen in Jack Crawford's holograms haunted him. Blood-soaked images of the dead girl danced through his mind as he climbed into bed, flashing in a frenzy behind his eyelids as he drifted into sleep. At first Molly murmured sleepily, threw an arm over his body and nuzzled against his neck. But by the time the bad dreams began in earnest, she was too far away to gentle him through the storm. 

For the first time in over a year, Will Graham dreamed of Abigail Hobbs.

***

"Count Lecter. This is my student, Abigail." Will bowed in deference. It had been months since Senator Alana B'loom introduced him to her current consort, but Will was still cautious in testing the boundaries of their newly-minted friendship. 

Abigail was not versed in the protocols of the titled nobility and only gazed at the elegantly-dressed man with frank curiosity in her wide blue eyes. She had no doubt expected someone ugly, draped in gaudy jewels and velvet. Disconcertingly, he was tall and handsome. His sandy hair was shot with grey, bound loosely at the back of his head. His simple doublet was a soft maroon leather. As Will watched her, Abigail suppressed a shiver from a sudden chill.

"Good evening," said Count Lecter, as the airlock door sealed itself behind his visitors. He smiled at the young woman with a fond sparkle in his eye. Will had spoken of Abigail so often that he must have been pleased to finally meet her in person. "Please, call me Hannibal."

She trailed after Hannibal into the main compartment of the yacht like a moon caught in his orbit, quietly awed by the opulence of her surroundings. "Will talks about you a lot, but he doesn't call you that."

The older man blinked at the direct manner of Will's companion. "It's not for lack of trying. I've come to the conclusion that your master Will is a protocol droid in disguise." A smirk crossed his features as he led the pair toward the dining area. Abigail laughed, a clear and ringing sound that Will did not hear often enough.

"I've told you before," Will chided the other man. He could feel the flush rising in his cheeks. "Abigail is not my padawan. I'm nobody's master."

Will had promised to teach Abigail the ways of the Force, but his teachings were generally theoretical in nature. If fate hadn't cut his opportunity short, Will may have been a Jedi Knight. But such things had no place anymore. All the Jedi were dead or had vanished into the obscurity of legend. If Abigail chose to wear a belted tunic and cloak like the garb he had once worn as a Jedi initiate, this was only an affectation on her part. In practice Will had come to think of the girl as more of an adopted daughter and an obstreporous pain in the ass than a 'padawan'.

Hannibal acceded, teasingly solemn. "She is solely your student then, and you her teacher. Forgive me Will. Your keen attention to social conventions led me to believe that you are a stickler for proper titles."

Will chose to ignore the snickering sound that came from Abigail, taking his seat. The table was set with a centrepiece of dark flowers and delicate feathered plumes, surrounded by an array of shining glassware and silver. Will found himself a little concerned at the number of forks set before him. He turned a dry look on his host. "Are you quite done? If I had known I would be at the mercy of your wit tonight, I would have sent Abigail here alone."

"Alana generally chastens me at every turn. In her absence, I am afraid you're both entirely at my mercy." Hannibal poured a glass of liqueur for Abigail, resting the palm of his free hand on the back of her shoulder as he spoke. "Surely you wouldn't abandon your student to such a fate, Will?" 

At first Abigail recoiled at the unexpected touch, and as Will watched he could not help but absorb her reaction. He had always been careful to maintain personal distance from the girl after her trauma, assuming the presence of fragility. Perhaps he had underestimated her, judging by the beaming smile she now turned toward Hannibal. Will felt an odd and unexplainable queasiness. The burden of empathy, he supposed.

"You speak so strangely to each other." Abigail took a cautious sip of the viscous purple liquid, decided she liked it, and drained half the glass in one mouthful. "I'm not quite sure what to think about your supposed friendship."

Hannibal stood behind Will, leaning over his shoulder as he overfilled his glass. The drink was heady, fragrant. As he spoke, Will imagined that he could feel breath tickling across the back of his neck. "To be honest, Abigail, I would consider our friendship to be entirely selfish on my part. As a shameless reprobate with a taste for the morbid, I find myself fascinated by my dear Will's line of work." 

Seating himself, Hannibal sipped from his own glass, holding eye contact with Will for an uncomfortably long moment. "Will has so far been gracious enough to expand my knowledge of the ways of the Force. Among other things."

"Will told me about your 'conversations'." She emphasised the last word, as if bemused by the idea that they would have anything to talk about, let alone choose to spend so much time in each other's company. Every spare moment when he wasn't lecturing, helping Jack Crawford on one of his gruesome cases or training Abigail, Will was here with Hannibal. "Do you talk about me at all, when you talk?"

The two men looked at each other, tight-lipped. After a moment, Hannibal took it upon himself to answer. "Yes. We talk about you often. We talk about your father, too."

In a small house on the Mid Rim world of Garos IV, Will had seen Abigail for the first time. Trapped tightly in her father's arms as he pressed his keen hunter's blade to her throat. Garret Hobbs had been whispering, whispering to her even as he cut, and her blood painted Will's face with brilliant crimson spray. The look in her terrified eyes at that moment would forever be branded on Will's memory. 

"I bet you enjoy that. It gives you a thrill, hearing the grisly stories of the Scourge of Garos." The tone of her words was bitter, but her face was blank and calm. The thick braid of hair that Abigail draped over her shoulder barely hid the scar. It was still jagged, rough and dark, but it would fade with the passage of time. There were other scars too, hidden scars, but these would never go away. Her hand traced unconsciously across the angry line on her skin. "Do you think my father was a monster?"

Garret Hobbs had been a Darksider, and a stalker of girls who were strong with the Force. Young women, much like his daughter. The media had spread the gruesome details throughout the Core Worlds after the final showdown, but they never knew the extent of Garret Hobbs' power. Not like Will, who had felt the intense chill of the Dark Side as soon as he stepped inside the house. He had seen the yellow glow of Hobbs' eyes as he held his daughter to his chest, commanding her to be still.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. "No. Not a monster, just a man. A man with great power, but no control." He paused, releasing a sigh. "I won't dishonour your experience by relying on the tabloid gossip, Abigail. What really happened that day?"

Servants had begun to enter the room, laden with dishes. They were unobtrusive in their professionalism, but the party fell into a silence as dinner was served. Will watched Abigail as she stared at her plate, toyed with her hair as she formed the words inside her head.

As the last servant disappeared from earshot, Abigail turned her searching gaze back to Hannibal. "It didn't seem real. My father was loving right up until the second he wasn't," she said. Her eyes sparkled, but no tears fell. "He kept telling me he was sorry, and to just hold still. He was going to make it all go away."

Will spoke up. "There was plenty wrong with your father, Abigail. But there's nothing wrong with you." He lifted a fork at random and speared an artistically carved vegetable from his plate. "You said he was loving. I believe it. The Dark Side corrupted him but he never hurt you, until-" Will was unable to finish the sentence.

"Until. You came for him, and he cut my throat while you watched." Caught in the memory, she seemed to drift away inside herself. "I remember the pain, the flash of light, the terrible sound." 

"The blaster?" Hannibal chewed his food slowly, ruminating. He gestured with the point of his knife. "When Will shot your father."

Abigail winced, and her eyes darted unconsciously toward Will. She cleared her throat. "Sure. When he shot my father." Picking up her fork, she played with her food, seemingly with no intention of eating it. "I would rather not think about it, to be honest."

A silence fell across the table, save for the clinking of cutlery as Hannibal and Will slowly ate. "This is delicious," said Will finally, awkwardness manifesting in a stiff politeness. Social niceties had never come easily to him, a displaced orphan set adrift far from his childhood home on Corellia.

"It looks good," agreed Abigail numbly, lazily swirling patterns in the sauce. "Do you make your servants cook for you?"

Although he seemed to cope with Will's own moods without objection, Will knew that Hannibal wasn't fond of the rude. However, the look of amusement on his face seemed to indicate that he found Abigail refreshing rather than offensive. "No. I love to cook."

"It is actually delicious, my young 'padawan'." Will's tone was heavy with sarcasm. "You'd know that if you actually tried it."

"I seared the meat with a rub of spices and the berry of a plant native to Garos IV," Hannibal said to Abigail. "That's your homeworld, isn't it? Senator B'loom is also from Garos IV."

Will looked down at his plate. The meat was succulent and rare, with a faint peppery sweetness lent by the berries. He closed his eyes for a moment to savour the taste, and then-

-  
A moment of darkness, silence.  
-

"-and I asked him if I could learn to fight with a lightsaber, but where do you even find one these days?" Abigail was speaking, her voice coming into focus from the midst of a dim background hum. "Will said I'd have to make my own. People do that?"

"People did that," Hannibal corrected her. "Will, you haven't even touched your dessert."

Will blinked. Before him, there was a dish of some pink and blue confection, strewn with puffs of spun sugar and exotic fruit. Panic thudded dully in his chest. Time had passed, but it had left him behind. "I don't-"

"Will?" Abigail's eyes showed concern, and something close to fear. "Are you okay?"

"I was eating and then... When did we-?"

This had happened before.

Only once, and he had thought it to be sleepwalking. Overtired and tormented by the ghost of Garret Hobbs, he had been at his office at the University late into the night. He was sitting at his desk, until suddenly he wasn't. Hannibal knew this, because when Will woke up, he had been standing on this very ship. In this very room.

Although it was not a completely new sensation, Will found himself disoriented. When Hannibal spoke it was with a calm and quiet authority. "What's the last thing that you remember, Will?"

Will searched his memory. "You were talking about Garos, some sort of berry..."

"That was half an hour ago," Hannibal confirmed, and paused. "You lost time."

Abigail spoke, her voice strangely flat. "The nightmares, the sleepwalking, now this?" 

Will lifted his hands to his face, scrubbing at the skin as if this could somehow clear the haze that obstructed his last half hour. "I'm so sorry. I- Something is wrong with me."

"You're disassociating, Will. It's a desperate survival mechanism for a psyche that endures repeated abuse."

Will got to his feet, the floor lurching beneath him as his body adjusted to being upright after so long in one position. "I'm not abused," he said.

Hannibal followed him, lightly stepping around the table. "You believe yourself to be weak, but I know the Force is strong in you." He placed a hand on Will's bare forearm, the touch like a spark of static. "It flows through you in the form of perfect empathy. What you feel is overwhelming you."

His words were unerringly insightful. Will met his eye, searching for some impression of what the other man was thinking. Times like this, he knew he didn't have perfect empathy. Not quite. If he did, Hannibal wouldn't always seem like such an enigma. Will let out a small, barely audible sigh. "I know," he said.

"Yet you choose to ignore it. That is the abuse I'm referring to."

Will wanted to step away from Count Lecter's withering gaze, but the light grip on his arm seemed to anchor him in place. "You want me to quit?"

Technically, he was on a leave of absence from the New Republic Fleet while he cared for the displaced Abigail and passed time with his teaching role at the University. This didn't stop Jack Crawford from begging help every time he needed to exploit the skills of his captive almost-Jedi. The effort of empathising with the twisted creatures of the Dark Side was damaging Will, and he knew it. The horror was gradually eroding the internal parts of him, replacing the essence of his being with the whispered voices of the corrupted.

He knew this, but he couldn't stop. There were too many people left to help. 

"I save lives," he said, as if this was enough of an excuse. A copycat killer had taken a number of lives since the grim end of Garret Hobbs, and Jack had pulled him headlong into the investigation. They were supposed to meet in the morning at Will's office on Coruscant to go over the case file and trade theories. Flying here for dinner had been an unnecessary luxury. Will turned toward his student. "Abigail, we have to go."

Will tried to pull his arm away, but Hannibal tightened his grip, his fingers digging into Will's flesh with bruising strength. A furrowed brow, an emotional reaction. Hannibal's control had slipped, but only for a moment. Realising his mistake, he let go of Will. Neither man moved.

"What about your life, Will?" His voice was soft now, and low. Their eyes were locked, and Will saw in Hannibal's face a mirror of his own pain. "I'm your friend, Will. I don't care about the lives you save. I care about your life."

Will felt the blood rush in his cheeks. He glanced at Abigail, standing an arm's length away from the two men. She was staring blankly at Hannibal, distracted.

"I must insist that you stay," Hannibal was saying. "You are unwell. I'll fetch my personal physician at once."

A brief moment of hesitation, and Hannibal walked out of the room.

"Will?" Abigail asked, as he gazed at the empty doorway.

"Maybe he's right," Will said. "We can stay here tonight, but in the morning-"

"I'm worried about you, Will."

The fearful tone of her voice pulled at Will. He turned to face her, hoping to provide comfort but unable to find the strength. "I'm worried about me, too."

"You have to be careful." Abigail's words had an urgency to them, and her eyes darted toward the door as she spoke. "He knows you didn't shoot my father."

And his blood ran cold.

***

Will awoke with a start, shivering in the sweat-soaked sheets. Molly on the far edge of the bed was still asleep despite his thrashing, but starting to stir. He didn't want to wake her. Still disoriented from his dream, he pushed the blankets aside and walked on unsteady legs to the moonlit kitchen. It was winter and the house was too cold to be wandering around in his underwear, but he hoped the chill might help to push the remnants of his dream away.

The last thing he had seen was Abigail's face.

Abigail.

Once he had planned a life which revolved around her, around a wish to be the father she deserved. But now she was only a jumble of broken memories and fragmentary impressions inside Will's head. Dead, missing, gone. The sound of a scream cut short, and the taste of blood.

She had known all along how Will killed her father. She had known, and she had stayed with him anyway. The guilt hung heavily on Will, the responsibility for what had happened. She had begged him to be careful the very first time she had met Hannibal. But he hadn't listened to her, or his own instincts.

He remembered the day he killed Garret Hobbs. There had been a flash of light, pure blue and crackling as the energy passed through Will's body. The lightning hit Garret Hobbs in the chest, knocking him back against the kitchen cabinet. He dropped stone dead on the floor behind his daughter, who was flopping like a fish as the blood poured from her throat.

He had hoped she hadn't seen it, hoped that the trauma had erased it from her memory, but once again Will had underestimated Abigail Hobbs. He had never drawn his blaster, and she had known it all along.

Alone in the dark kitchen, Will opened his palm and gazed down at the lines of his hand. It was faint, especially in the dim light of the room, but he could still see the scar on his palm from where the lightning had emerged in a vicious arc toward Garret Hobbs. The stream of pure Dark energy, fueled by a moment of intense rage.

Will felt guilty. When he should have listened to her warnings, he listened to Hannibal instead. Hannibal, who knew he had used the power of the Dark Side. He had hungered for Will's corruption, and he almost got his wish. Will discovered his crimes, but not before Abigail paid the price.

_"Something's wrong with you," she said. "I think you're still sick."_

In the end, she had learned to reject her instincts.

_The sound of a scream cut short._

In the end, she had been more afraid of Will than she had ever been of Hannibal.

_And the taste of blood._

She had been so blind.

Will glanced up at the countertop where Jack Crawford's holoprojector unit still sat, deactivated and lifeless. The girl in the hologram, the one who reminded Will so much of his beloved Abigail, had been blind.

Blind, and heartbroken. Betrayed.

Will activated the device with a shaking hand, flipping past the first hologram to the second victim. A mutilated pilot, a military man. He was doubly blind, as the eyes had been torn out before the killer hid the empty staring sockets behind a blindfold. He was emasculated by betrayal, stripped of his authority.

Will relaxed, allowing his mind to associate.

Jack. The resemblance wasn't perfect, but it was meant to be Jack.

Jack Crawford had been stabbed a number of times by Hannibal Lecter, and only survived by crawling into the storeroom and locking the door behind him. Senator B'loom had stumbled upon the scene of Hannibal launching himself at the closed door, knives clutched in both hands. He had hurled Alana down the corridor with a wave of his hand, breaking every bone in her body. Will had found her in a crumpled heap by the airlock, close to death, when he arrived.

Will moved to the next image on the holoprojector, feeling sick to the stomach. The third victim, yes. Near-human, but not human. Just like Alana. Blind, and broken. Like Alana.

Will didn't even look at the fourth hologram again. He already knew.

The light was on in the bedroom when Will came in, arms clutched around his shivering form. Molly was waiting for him, seated on the edge of the bed. Her eyes shone with tears.

"I know," she said, before he had a chance to speak. "Don't- It's okay. I'll help you pack a bag."

Will left before the sun came up in the morning and set his course for Republic City, where Lieutenant Colonel Crawford was waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What an ungodly lump of words this has been. Ugh.  
> Sometimes I read the stuff I've written and it feels like I've just put all the Hannibal scripts in a blender, and this is what comes out. The word 'sludge' comes to mind. 
> 
> Buuuut it's sludge with Manbun Hannibal! Yes, I'm going there.
> 
> Anyway, Sorry for the delay on this one, folks. Real life has infuriatingly gotten in the way over the last couple of weeks. Hopefully I've gotten through the worst of it now, so updates should come with more regularity.
> 
> Also, you may notice I'm not exactly sticking to the canon series of events here, but what would be the fun of an AU that sticks to the original storyline? ;) Let me know if there's anything that doesn't make sense.
> 
> Check back soon, lovelies! We've got a long space journey ahead of us.


	4. Adjusting to the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a mindset Will needed to revisit. The mentality of a killer he had once known only as the Ripper.

"Will Graham, sir. I'm Brian Zeller." The pilot removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm as he introduced himself, holding his engine grease-streaked hand out for the other man to shake. Will ignored the gesture, partly through a habitual aversion to being touched, but mostly as he was distracted by the bold starbird emblem on the man's flight vest.

Jack had sent him to this nondescript airfield on the fringes of Republic City rather than his office on base, giving the meeting an air of the clandestine. Will had considered this odd, but now he was starting to get an idea why.

Zeller's friendly grin rapidly faded as Will turned away from him, addressing his dry words to Jack Crawford. "I can't help but feel like you lured me here under false pretenses."

"Not sure what you're trying to say, Graham." 

Will reached out, rapped his knuckles heavily on the top of Zeller's helmet. "Unless your man here is a vintage costume enthusiast or we've somehow stepped back in time to the height of the Rebel Alliance," Will replied, "Perhaps you'd better tell me who it is you're working for."

Zeller's expression was approaching one of disgust. He glanced at Jack. "Sir?"

After all their years of association, Jack still found it in himself to be surprised by Will's insight. He gave a sigh of resignation. "We're on a tight schedule, but I'd be happy to explain everything en route." He didn't wait for a response, instead turning toward the ramp of the small transport. "Come with us, or don't."

Despite his misgivings, Will found himself sinking heavily into the seat opposite the Lieutenant Colonel as the pilot readied the ship for departure. "So you're with the Resistance." 

"I never lied to you, Will." Jack replied, his countenance serene. "And I would have told you earlier."

"If necessity called for it, maybe." Will paused. "Does this make you a civilian? I would have though they'd strip your rank when you defect to a paramilitary group."

"I still fight for the Republic, under General Organa's command."

The Resistance was a rumour that had bounced around the Fleet for some time now, mostly unknown to civilians. It had been some years since Will was an enlisted man, but the nature of his work brought him in regular contact with the Naval techies and mechanics. He had heard things. The Resistance were usually considered as dangerous renegades who jumped at shadows, but the small militant offshoot was spoken of with a guarded respect among those who were too young to remember the casualties of the war against the Empire. Those who chafed against the demilitarisation, those who longed to let off a few shots at a deserving enemy. Jack had always impressed him as a dedicated bureaucrat, but it seemed he had been drawn in by Leia Organa's call to arms.

"You said it yourself." Jack gestured expansively. "It can all turn to dust in an instant."

"Entropy is inevitable. Doesn't mean I'm willing to actively hasten the demise of everything we've worked for."

"We do what is necessary," Jack replied simply, folding his hands on the small durasteel table between them. "Politics aside, people are dying. Do you really think that Republic Command could give a damn about four dead bodies?"

Jack had a point. Even if Hannibal Lecter killed half the population of a small planet, Republic Command would find an excuse to sweep it under the rug. The fleet did not engage. The fleet did not provoke. "One of the victims was military." Will responded weakly.

Jack inclined his head. "Two, actually. Ensign Marissa Schurr." Jack was trying to remain professional, but Will could tell that this subject was difficult for him. "The first victim. She was one of ours. And she was my recruit."

The girl. Will understood now, and the edge of animosity he had felt toward Jack for his obfuscation began to fade, replaced with pity. This was personal.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"She had the makings of a great pilot. Isn't that right, Zeller?" 

Jack turned his head toward the pilot, who was clearly hanging on every word of their conversation as he performed his final checks. Zeller at least attempted to look repentant that Jack had noticed his eavesdropping, his cheeks flushing. "Yes sir. Good kid. She had real potential."

Jack dismissed the pilot with a pointed look before turning his attention back to Will. "Our numbers are small, but every life matters for the Resistance. Especially those with the potential to restore balance to the Force."

"Talent counts for nothing if it isn't trained, directed." If anything, this was proof positive that they were fighting a losing battle. "I hate to keep telling you this, but all the Jedi are gone. There will never be balance."

Will had seen with his own eyes as the great temple burned to the ground, seen the grounds littered with the broken bodies of his fellow students. Master Skywalker was gone, and a few fled, too inconsequential to chase. Like Will. He was haunted by his father's final, bitter words.

_"If you were worth even half a damn, you would have died along with the rest of them."_

He couldn't help but feel like the dark side would always win.

"I have hope," Jack said, fixing Will with a steady gaze. "You're here, aren't you? The battle isn't lost yet."

Will rubbed a hand over his eyes. A long night of bad dreams had taken its toll. "Save me the recruitment spiel. I'm not here to join your crusade."

He had long since given up hope of being a hero. Maybe his father was right, after all. "I'll find Hannibal for you," he continued. The growing hum of machinery told him they were in the process of taking off. Soon, the Hosnian system would just be another bright dot in the sky. "And I'll kill him. Not just for you." For Ensign Schurr, for the others that had died. But mostly, for Will himself.

"But then I'm coming home. To safety. To my family."

Jack studied him with narrowed eyes, but he didn't push the issue. "You'll get home safely," he said. "I promise."

Jack, like Will, had packed light for the journey. His stopover on Hosnian Prime had been a short one, and Will hoped his trip to wherever they were going would be equally brief. Jack reached into his small duffel and extracted a battered datapad, checking the datacard before handing the device over to Will.

"I'll get you an ETA," he said, "but you'll have plenty of time to review the case files before we arrive."

Will took the device but didn't turn it on, instead laying it on the table before settling back in his chair. Before Jack stood up and walked away, he had already closed his eyes and was retreating to a dusty, long-forgotten room in the palace of his memory.

There would be time to go through the biographies of the victims and the crime scene images, but first there was a mindset he needed to revisit. The mentality of a killer he had once known only as the Ripper.

***

"Tell me about the Ripper," he said from across the room, as he returned with two glasses of wine.

Will's head was thumping, a persistent headache he couldn't seem to shake. As a consequence of his relentless nightmares and a fear of losing time, he had barely slept in days. "Why? You usually seem so adamant that I stop working with Crawford."

"And you are constantly refusing to accede." Count Lecter handed him a glass, the tips of his fingers deliberately brushing against Will's hand. He sat in the seat opposite. "The least I can do is provide some sort of stabilising influence, lest you lose yourself."

Will's skin itched with a lingering energy where Hannibal had touched him. Absently, he switched the wine glass to his left hand and scrubbed the back of the right across his chin, scraping at the rough stubble. "Strictly speaking, the least you could do is nothing."

A smile tugged at the corners of Hannibal's lips. In Will's experience, he was a man who demanded obedience and courtesy from almost everyone around him except Will himself. While Jack Crawford's straightforward nature had raised his hackles more than once, he seemed to react to Will's argumentative outbursts with a fond appreciation. Of late, Will's protege Abigail was also immune from Hannibal's censure, no matter how petulant her mood became. It was an odd sort of indulgence, almost familial. A kind of acceptance that Will had never really encountered before.

"I care about you, Will," Hannibal said softly. In the dim light, his eyes seemed to shine a deep red. "Let me be your anchor."

"Well..."

Hannibal prompted him gently. "You've constructed a profile of the Ripper?"

Will nodded, sipped his wine. "Yes, and also no." He exhaled heavily. "I know he's human, or humanoid. Male, or analogous to male. He kills in short bursts, spates of three or four, separated by months, or sometimes more than a year. Sticks mainly to the core worlds."

"Until the most recent murders. The copycats."

Hannibal definitely seemed interested, but Will wasn't able to decipher his expression. It was frustrating and new to him, interacting with someone he could neither read nor predict. "Mm. Five killings, all within the Garos system. Strong force sensitives. The Ripper has never killed like that before."

"Following the pattern set down by Hobbs."

No, not like that at all. "Hobbs killed girls as a surrogate for Abigail. He consumed every part, feeling that he could somehow absorb their power. The Ripper has co-opted his imagery, but his purpose is -or has been- entirely different."

Hannibal considered him quietly for a moment. "But you see a connection."

"The Ripper has never paid any mind to force sensitivity before. He either knew Hobbs, hunted with him, or..." Will trailed off. The 'or' led to a multitude of possibilities, all of which he was too tired to consider. "I don't know."

"The killer has inside knowledge of the investigation," Hannibal supplied helpfully. "It may have been your focus on the Scourge that drew his attention, rather than Hobbs himself."

"That would make you a suspect, Count Lecter." Will drained his wine, fidgeted with the stem of the empty glass.

Hannibal's face was blank at this suggestion for the briefest moment, before he returned a teasing smile. "And you. An altogether more likely prospect, I should add."

Will was surprised, less by the idea itself than the expression of it. "I'm scandalised by your accusation."

Hannibal chuckled. "No accusation, just an observation." He finished his own wine, placing the glass on a small table beside him with a resonant clink. "Your recent fugues, your blackouts. With what certainty can you state your whereabouts while the murders occurred?"

"I'm not the Ripper." Will said, feeling that such a defence should be unnecessary.

From where he sat, Will could see the lights of the planet below through the viewport. From orbit, everything looked so beautiful, so unblemished. A surface calm, much like the expression on Count Lecter's face. Up close, the city would reveal itself. The darkness that lurked in the alleyways, the danger in the shadows. Will wondered what was lurking under Hannibal's serene veneer, what thoughts shifted and swirled just under the surface.

"You hold your conviction close, like a talisman against the darkness," Hannibal said, submerged in the dusky half-light. "For what it's worth, I'm inclined to believe you. But I'm not the one you need to convince."

With an effort, Will held his shoulders square. "Jack doesn't suspect me."

"Not yet, in any case." Hannibal appeared amused. "So who does the esteemed Major Crawford have in his sights? Could it possibly be our dear Padawan Hobbs?"

Hannibal knew very well that Jack suspected Abigail. He had probably even told Hannibal this himself, having learned the value of the nobleman's counsel despite his non-military status. "Are you asking, Lecter, or telling?"

"I don't suppose I need to tell you that Abigail couldn't be the Ripper." 

"Jack doesn't believe the Ripper is responsible, hence she remains a viable suspect in his eyes." The fourth victim had been the clincher for the Major's theory. Nicholas Boyle, an early suspect and brother of the first girl slaughtered in the spate of copycat murders, had been witnessed in a heated argument with Will's protégé. After his abrupt disappearance, Will had been curious to see him wind up on the slab beside his sister. He had to admit this looked suspicious, but he believed Abigail when she claimed innocence.

"Jack dismisses these new killings as copycats of Hobbs, they're so localised." Will took to his feet, suddenly unable to withstand Hannibal's steady and unblinking gaze. Those eyes that peered deep into him, seeing all yet revealing nothing. "But I see the Ripper's signature, the same theatricality. I'm almost certain."

As he walked to the viewport, Will saw from the corner of his eye as Hannibal unfolded himself from the chair, stretching his long body. "Almost?"

"The others, I can step inside them. Wear them like a skin. Not the Ripper. I've tried to measure his motivations, but my..." Ability, he meant to say, but he had always considered it unnecessarily arrogant to declare his profiling to be anything beyond mundane analysis. "I'm limited to the visible facts," he concluded lamely, resting his heated forehead against the cool glass of the viewport, gazing down at the planet below. "I can see what he has done, but I can't _see_ the Ripper."

He was distracted, and didn't hear the quiet footfalls as Hannibal approached him from behind. The soft press of the other man's hand against his upper back drew him away from the window with a shudder, and a small sound escaped him. Partly from surprise from the sudden touch, but also from the surge of energy that seemed to radiate from Hannibal's fingers at the point of contact.

Hannibal's voice was soft in his ear. "You seek to shine your light into the corners to see him. But a creature composed entirely of shadow will never be seen with the aid of light." His hand brushed lightly across Will's back, dragging against the thin material of his shirt.

Will turned around to face Hannibal. Standing so close to him, so uncomfortably close. Lips parted, pupils wide in the deepening gloom.

"The Ripper wants to be seen," Will said, his voice a low murmur.

"The Ripper craves to be seen," Hannibal replied. "By you, and you alone. But no torch or laser light will reveal his face." As if realising his proximity, he took a slow step back from Will. "All you need to do is let your eyes adjust to the darkness."

***

Ensign Marissa Schurr had met her untimely end in a low dome-shaped storage shed, roofed with camouflaging turf, on the small Outer Rim planet of D'Qar. Hardly the heroic death that most freedom fighters would dream of. Actually, given her young age, Will doubted she had even got so far as to consider the prospect that she might die. Youth has a tendency toward delusions of immortality.

He felt the sudden chill of dark energy and the echo of a familiar presence as they ushered him into the shed, and he pushed away his empathy for the dead girl. Her fear and pain wouldn't help him now. With a shaking hand, he closed the door against the curious onlookers, and he stood there alone in the dark. Breathing in the quiet.

He closed his eyes, and concentrated on the images emblazoned on his memory, the crime scene pictures from the case file.

The sweep of the heavy pendulum across his mind.

And then:

_I bring her here alone after the last patrol has returned, and the officers have settled into the mess for the evening. I want to show her something, and she comes willingly. She knows me, trusts me. This is my design._

Will exhaled a low, shuddering breath, and stepped forward. In his mind's eye, the young Ensign turned her head over her shoulder, smiling. "What is it? I can't see in here."

He stopped in the centre of the room, looked down at the random dark spots of blood that patterned the stresscrete floor. The tape, marking where her body had been found.

_I grasp her by the braid, hard enough to tear the skin of her scalp. She is surprised, hurt, betrayed. I pull her close to me as she struggles, and I clamp my hand over her mouth to stifle her cries. My other hand holds the blade, and I drive it into her chest as hard as I can._

Before him, the phantom of Marissa Schurr moaned weakly. Her breath was hot and damp against the press of his palm, and her knees began to buckle.

_I release the knife as she weakens against me, but I don't let her fall, not yet. I reach up with both hands, and hook my forefingers into her eyes, gouging, clawing. Her blood falls down like rain around us._

Will sank to his knees, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he focused.

_I ease the dying girl onto the cold floor. I begin to unbraid her hair as she lies twitching with her head in my lap, her face contorted by grief and sadness as rivulets of blood pour down her cheeks. I know her pain. It is my pain. I wait until her heart has stopped beating before I cut it, fresh and raw, from her chest._

"You're Will Graham."

Will's eyes snapped open, shaking with the shock of sudden consciousness. He glared up at the woman who stood across the room from him, brandishing a pair of tweezers. She was wearing military fatigues, a pair of goggles pushed high on her forehead. She met his eye with open curiosity.

"You're not supposed to be in here," Will said, feeling perspiration drip down the back of his neck.

"You wrote the standard text on the midichlorian fallacy." She cocked her head to the side, as if she could barely believe that the small, scruffy and decidedly sweaty man who crouched on the dark floor of the storage shed could be the same Will Graham she read about at the academy. After a moment, she waved the tweezers at him. "I found flower petals over by the door. Non-indigenous species."

He stared blankly at her, unsure whether she was expecting praise or some sort of insight. She only looked him up and down, taking in the details of his outfit with a wry grin. "You're not with the Resistance?"

"I'm a special investigator," he responded, having difficulty constructing the sentence. As he clambered to regain his feet, she offered her free hand, holding the tweezers with their captured flower petal by her side.

"I've heard about your methods. You see the murders, right? You -uh- participate? Are you a Jedi?" He felt himself flush, unsure if she was teasing or serious. If she was in the habit of reading reports on mythical force micro-organisms, it could well have been the latter.

"Force sensitive," he stammered. "If anything. There are no Jedi."

"I wouldn't say that in General Organa's earshot," she confided. 

Will's heart rate was slowly returning to normal, and the shock of the sudden wake from his trance was receding. Almost as if on cue, the door flew open and Jack Crawford stormed into the room. "You're not supposed to be in here."

"I found flower petals," the woman protested. "Non-indigenous species."

Jack fumed. "Take them to the lab, then. Graham is working."

"No, I'm done here." Will rubbed the sweaty palms of his hands on his pants.

A critical eye. "What have you got?"

"A splitting headache," Will replied candidly. "Aside from that, not much. The victim knew her assailant."

He could see the doubt in Jack's expression. While he believed strongly in Will's ability, he still had a hard time accepting evidence that countered his own steadfast beliefs. "Hannibal Lecter would've been recognised instantly if he was here on base. We're a small team, very close-knit."

"Our numbers are growing," offered the woman, who stood by the entrance next to Brian Zeller. The pilot seemed torn between curiosity and open hostility. As a result, he just looked confused. The woman continued. "He could have come in disguise, kept away from the common areas."

"Long enough to build Marissa's trust? No." Jack scowled. "Thought I told you to get back to the lab, Katz."

She pointedly ignored the Lieutenant Colonel, focusing instead on Will.

"No, it is a possibility. Or she knew him from before." Will's eyes were drawn back to the floor, the calm pattern of the black blood on the stresscrete. No signs of duress or restraint, no struggle until the last grisly moments when her trust was betrayed. "Or maybe it wasn't Hannibal who led her here."

Katz's eyes widened, and she shared a look with Zeller. "Not the Ripper?"

"He did this," Jack argued. "You said it yourself."

"I said it was his design," Will retorted with a heavy sigh. "But he could be guiding the hand of another. Some kind of twisted apprenticeship."

The idea was chilling, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The trajectory of the blood spatter indicated that the killer stood at equal height to Ensign Schurr, and Hannibal was easily a head taller. The trauma to the victim's chest, while purposefully directed, had a slightly ragged appearance. This was all weak conjecture, though. He needed to see the body to be sure.

"I need to visit the morgue."

"Jimmy Price is waiting for you," Jack said. "I'll show you the way."

"I can find it. Don't you have work to do?" He had to get out, spend some time with his thoughts. With a brief nod of farewell, Will shouldered his way through the doorway into the night air.

The respite was brief. As he made his way along the row of hangars toward the distant main building, Will heard the footsteps of someone jogging after him.

"Hey!" The woman's voice reached him. "Wait up!"

Will maintained his pace, gritting his teeth. "I said I can find it myself."

"Sure, you look capable enough." Katz hurried alongside him. "I'm headed in the same direction, though. Lab. Morgue." She gestured with her hands as if weighing the abstract concepts.

Will glanced in her direction but didn't reply, only kept walking forward. He knew he was coming off as incredibly rude, but the cold sweat that soaked through his shirt left him in an uneasy mood.

When it seemed he wasn't going to acknowledge her words, she stepped in to block his path. "Zeller told me you were an asshole. Also, overrated."

Will came to a stop, thrusting his shaking hands into his pockets. At least his voice sounded reasonably even. "So you came to confirm first-hand?"

"I'm all about the evidence. I'm a scientist." She held out her hand. "Beverly Katz."

He nodded, pursing his lips. "Overrated Asshole," he retorted. "Pleased to meet you. I don't shake hands."

"Uh. Okay." Unsure what to do with her hand now that it had been rejected, she ran her fingers through her long, straight hair. She stepped aside, and they continued their progress toward the large building ahead. "I'll reserve judgement until I know you better. Do you fly?"

The incongruous question surprised him, and he had a sudden vision of himself soaring blithely over the rooftops, powered only by force energy and whimsy. He laughed despite himself. "I'm no pilot. You _do_ know why I'm here, right?"

She shrugged. "We all do double duty, here. _Can_ you fly?" She injected just enough sarcasm to match his tone.

"Fighters, no. And I can't shoot. No offence, but I won't be here long enough to learn."

"Pity. We're good people here." Her expression was serious. "Even Zeller, although he has his moments. And Lieutenant Colonel Crawford, well..."

Will chuckled. "He has his moments too."

"Just saying." They reached the heavy door of the base, sheltered beneath an overhang of dirt and small shrubby plants. They stopped, side by side. "I knew Ensign Schurr. Marissa." Her voice faltered. "We flew patrol together, the day she..."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Will responded numbly, feeling like he would be repeating these words numerous times before he got out of this place. He could only imagine how hard it was for her, for all the people here. Investigating the loss of one of their own. He had always been an outsider.

"Yeah," she said, accepting his sympathy with gruff restraint. "Just give us a chance, okay? Reserve judgement."

"Okay."

She nodded, exhaling heavily. "You know, Luke Skywalker was a Jedi Knight, and he could fly."

The words would have sounded like an accusation if it weren't for the friendly tone. "I'm not Luke Skywalker," he replied. "Hate to disappoint you."

"Darth Vader could fly too."

Will snorted, disarmed. "I think it's fairly clear that I'm not Darth Vader either. Too short, for one."

Beverley cocked her head to the side, fixing him with a thoughtful gaze. "Then who are you, Will Graham?"

He was caught off-balance, and answered honestly. "I-I don't know for sure." After all that had happened to him, after all he went through at the hands of Hannibal Lecter, his personal identity had become more nebulous and murky. "I guess the more pertinent concern is who I could be."

Beverley Katz nodded sagely. "You could be a Resistance hero. Just putting it out there." She opened the metal door, gesturing for Will to precede her into the base. "Morgue's to the left. After you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I wrote Zeller as such a hater, but I guess Will is being kind of a dick.
> 
> Not even sure if anyone wants to read this, but I just can't seem to stop myself writing it. Enjoy my latest regurgitation, folks.
> 
> Also, as usual, it's late and my proofreading skills are bloody awful, so let me know if you see any glaring mistakes.
> 
> Love to all of you!

**Author's Note:**

> Like it? Hate it? Bueller? Bueller? 
> 
> Validate my existence on [Tumblr](http://frankenberger.tumblr.com/), or pester me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Frankenberger/).
> 
> Hate mail/weird gifs/random crap always appreciated.


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